


The Shape of You

by Myracuulous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 year slow burn resolution, Cuddling, M/M, end-of-series spoilers, sexless angels/demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myracuulous/pseuds/Myracuulous
Summary: An angel and a demon explore each other's bodies. Despite that promising byline, the fic remains PG.





	The Shape of You

Him. The old bookshop always smelled like him: antique paper, sunlight filtering through dusty air, the faintly floral end notes of this decade's cologne. Crowley opened the shop with a little brass key clutched in short, pink fingers, as if he did so every morning. And then, not wishing to break character, he closed the door and locked it again. It was a good thing the angel kept irregular hours: the thought of dealing with customers was making Crowley queasy.

This whole plan had been a terrible mistake. It was preposterous, expecting a demon to impersonate an angel for God-knew how long, until Heaven or Hell decided to do something about their little rebellion. Sure, maybe, if it had been any old angel. An angel like Gabriel? All you'd need to do for that was run around being full of it, and demons were rather good at that sort of lie. But Aziraphale was the kind of angel who really deserved the name. Certainly, Crowley had a strong working knowledge of his mannerisms, vocabulary, habits, expressions, and personal preferences, but someone was bound to notice how the light behind all of that was missing. Weren't they?

Crowley practiced not-sauntering across the wooden floor of the bookshop, making it all the way to the angel's favourite armchair with barely a misplaced footstep or swayed hip. He immediately collapsed into it from the effort, pouring a large glass of whatever was in the nearby decanter. Unfortunately, sitting down aggravated the real problem with the plan, which Crowley was trying not to admit to himself. Aziraphale's body was delightfully, wonderfully cozy. Like a pillowy cloud, as trite as that metaphor was where angels were involved. Just to be sure, Crowley wrapped himself in a hug, then let go rather quickly when the feeling of comforting warmth was replaced with a shot of voyeuristic guilt[1].

Not guilt over the intermingling that angels and demons weren’t meant to get up to. Crowley had long since stopped worrying about that. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was worth worrying about, and he’d always kept Crowley at arm’s length. It wasn’t as though Crowley hadn’t given him chances to get closer, either. He’d schemed for centuries, arranged elaborate plots to get the angel alone and comfortable in a place where a little cuddling would be just the thing to finish off a nice evening, only to be rebuffed with a stiff nod, at the very best a handshake. 

And that was… fine, really, the dinners were still lovely and the conversations marvellous, but this was the first, and perhaps last, chance that Crowley had for anything like a proper hug from the ridiculous angel he’d been in love with for the last six thousand someodd years. Was it wrong, wanting to enjoy the moment? Just sitting there was temptation, and Crowley found himself running one pink hand over the other as he contemplated the matter, just enjoying the feeling of soft, angelic skin.

While not particularly malevolent, as demons went, Crowley had never been very good at resisting temptation. 

He let himself sink deeper into the plush chair with a long, contented sigh. It wasn’t anything wrong, really. He’d given his word to Aziraphale that he would treat the body gently, and this was nothing if not gentle. Crowley’s senses were sharp to every sensation: the feel of good linen against his skin, the softness of his hair, the faint tickle of dust. He traced Aziraphale’s face with his fingers, stopping on the curve of his cheeks, the button tip of his nose, the dip just beneath his lips. Soft, angelic features he’d come to know almost better than his own. Forget an eternity of choral harmonies and perfect blue skies, this, this was the real Heaven. 

If only his best friend were there to share it with. 

Crowley put his hands down, and took a long swig from the drink he’d poured. It was going to be a very long whenever, waiting for Heaven to punish him. He missed his throne, he missed his plants, and most of all he already missed looking at Aziraphale.

***

Aziraphale fumbled with the key to Crowley’s apartment, dropping it twice before convincing these new, long fingers to hold it properly and give it a good twist. His hips and spine already hurt from sauntering, his head felt funny from the strange way his borrowed eyes saw colours that weren’t meant to be there, and the whole body felt faintly sticky. 

It simply wouldn’t do. Crowley always walked around with a certain charm to him, that confident demonic flair. If Aziraphale wanted to save his life, he’d need to learn how to mimic that, but for the moment all he could imagine was a good sit-down and a stiff drink. 

And something else, there was a way to fix the sticky problem. Aziraphale was quite sure that humans had come up with a solution to that, sometime around building all those nice marble columns in Greece. What was it called? Oh, yes. A shower.

Angels, even angels given material form, did not require showers. Cleanliness was next to godliness, and one of the many little perks of the upstairs offices. Demons, as far as most demons were concerned, also did not require showers. Crowley had discovered bathing just a few weeks after the concept was invented, which helped explain his incredible success in infiltrating and influencing humanity[2]. Aziraphale, having been the one to mention the new invention, had wondered briefly if he should feel guilty about this turn of events, but had eventually decided the benefits had outweighed any potential increase in Crowley’s demonic powers.

Aziraphale found the showering room in short order, through the living room and throne, just past the plants. He gave the ferns a stern look as he passed, and waggled a menacing finger, just in case anyone was watching through the windows. Besides, if he was to menace demons into leaving Crowley alone, he’d best take all the chances he could to practice. The showering room was much like the rest of the flat, spacious and sharp and cold. A large mirror took up the entirety of one wall, reflecting Crowley’s face back at the angel who wore it. Aziraphale examined it with some interest. In fact, he found it rather hard to stop looking at it. 

There was no getting around it: Crowley was a very aesthetically pleasing demon. His hair, so short this decade, was sort of sharp and pleasantly springy along the top, where Aziraphale pressed it down to see how it maintained its shape. Still experimenting, the angel removed his borrowed jacket, and the distressingly wrinkled t-shirt beneath, then gradually the rest of the clothing, all without quite looking away from his reflection. 

Crowley had been an angel once, and mercifully his new master hadn’t installed any extra plumbing. Thank Heaven. Aziraphale had only a textbook understanding of how such parts worked, and wasn’t keen on any hands-on learning. Without all his dark clothing, Crowley’s body looked quite pale and thin. Still beautiful, but also a little sad.  _ We should do lunch more often, thought Aziraphale _ . The idea was such a lovely one, he could hardly help but smile. 

Oh, when Crowley’s face smiled like that. Unguarded, beaming, happy without a shred of irony or fear. 

_ Oh my. I should like to see him look like this someday. _

Aziraphale turned away from the mirror, quite cross with himself. This was leading to all sorts of things that angels and demons shouldn’t do with one another. Some of which angels shouldn’t really be doing at all, mind. Aziraphale walked pointedly into the shower, not swaggering at all, and turned the water on cold. He had already consorted with the enemy for millennia, disobeyed a direct order from a celestial general, and helped give the Antichrist a pep talk. He was pushing his luck with the Great Divine quite enough already. 

But on the other hand, God herself had never really objected to any of that. She could have, she’d had ample opportunity. The cold water felt refreshing on Crowley’s skin, washing off all the sweat and grime of the day. It felt pleasant, standing here like this, surrounded by him. It wasn’t how he’d been told to think, but it was occurring to Aziraphale that not everything in the world had to make sense by Heaven’s laws. 

Some things, it turned out, were… ineffable. 

***

By some miracle, things had gone exactly according to plan. A little tipsy, walking away from the Ritz towards nowhere in particular, Aziraphale had to wonder just whose miracle it had been. It hadn’t been his, Heaven would have caught it in their records. And, for the same reason, it couldn’t have been Crowley’s. If anyone had been responsible, it had to have been a higher power.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, swaggering along beside him. Oh, right, Aziraphale had been in the middle of saying something.

“--Little popping bubbles, filled with a sort of juice. You put them on frozen yogurt, or in your tea. You can get them in London now, but I’ve wanted to try them first in Taiwan, where they were invented.” Aziraphale was finding that he had just a little bit of residual saunter in his step, after three glasses of champaign, on account of re-acclimating to slightly shorter legs. “You know, I think that would have been my biggest regret, if the world really had ended. Not trying them at all because I’d been holding out for Taiwan.”

“Mmm,” replied Crowley, in a tone that suggested understanding and agreement. “I’d always thought about going hiking. Never got around to it.”

“Hiking?” A brief moment of panic flashed across Aziraphale’s eyes. “Really?”

“I know it sounds a bit daft. I took credit for inventing hiking, you know, downstairs. ‘Remember that thing soldiers had to do to get over mountains and through forests and the like? Well, here we go, let’s make the humans do that for fun’. Got a commendation for it. But… fresh air, nice views, solitude? Might be sort of enjoyable, really.” Crowley, if anything, was sauntering a little less now. He seemed so much lighter now, than before the Apocalypse. Happier, even a little bolder. Not that he’d ever been meek, merely guarded, but tonight that shield seemed thinner. 

“I suppose it could be pleasant. Not… too solitary, I hope?”

“Oh, you and I would hardly count as a crowd, I should think.” 

“Well, that’s alright then.” Aziraphale smiled again, quite reassured. They had reached the bookshop, and it seemed quite natural that he would open the door, step aside, and let Crowley in. They could have another drink together, and dessert. He had strawberry ice cream in the freezer. “What else haven’t you tried?”

The demon sauntered in behind him, locking the door by habit and not touching the ‘closed’ sign. Watching Crowley’s face, now with all its proper expressions back in place, had been the real delight of the afternoon. Now, Crowley was wearing that particularly nonchalant expression he put on when he had something particularly important to say but didn’t want to admit that it was important. 

“How about…having a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend, or a…” he struggled to turn noncommittal noises into words “whatever… friend. Never tried having one of those.”

Aziraphale stalled, and averted his eyes from those dark glasses, and the golden eyes he knew were hidden beneath them. “You’ve got me as a friend, though. Doesn’t that count?”

Crowley looked pained. “I mean, with holding hands, and snogging, and, and, all that sort of thing. Someone you can just… touch.”

“Well, I mean that’s rather, rather… you’ve never been kissed?”

“Like I said, never… got around to it. What, have you?”

“Goodness, no. I mean, it’s just not something angels do.”[3]

“Right, right, right. Stupid idea, then.” Aziraphale watched him step back, shy away, push his glasses back up further on his face. Crowley had almost made it to that bright, unguarded smile. It wasn’t fair, him hiding away, when all he’d ever done was ask questions. 

_ He is beautiful, and he is good, and you are in love with him. _

Aziraphale made a decision. 

The angel stepped forward, closing the gap, and removed Crowley’s glasses with conviction. “It’s not a stupid idea. It’s a very good idea. I’m the one who’s been… well, slow about all this.”

Crowley’s golden eyes were wide, disbelieving. He tried to make his tongue make words, but the syllables refused to cooperate. 

The kiss had been 6,000 years in the making, and it had been worth the wait. Crowley all but crawled into it, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale as if his life depended on never letting go. Aziraphale did the same, but gently, one hand weaving its fingers through that short red hair, the other caught in the small of the demon’s back. A few seconds in, Crowley regained the use of his tongue; a novel, but pleasant sensation, having that so wrapped about things too. Despite the new sensation, nothing about the kiss felt unfamiliar. It was like stepping into a house you’d never been to, and realizing that you’d come home for the very first time.

The long habit of breathing meant both of them eventually stopped for air, and for Crowley to try and make words again. “That was… very nice,” Aziraphale said, filling in the silence.

Several syllables followed from Crowley, eventually sorting themselves out enough to form a quiet, awkward “...yeah.” His grip on Aziraphale did not lessen in the slightest, in fact he buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder as if to hold on even tighter.

“...Would you like to sit down?”

“Do I need to let go for that?” Crowley’s voice was muffled, but close enough to his ear that the angel could make out the words.

“Probably.”

“Not sure ‘s a good idea, then.”

Aziraphale pulled his hand through the rest of Crowley’s hair, straightening it up. “Just to the sofa, where we can be a bit more comfortable. Then we can do this again.”

Crowley looked up to meet his eyes, his death-grip softening. “Are you quite sure you’ll want to?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale beamed at the look of wonder in the demon’s eyes. “I know it’s taken me some time to admit it, my dear Crowley, but in the end… I rather like the shape of you.”

 

_____________

[1] Guilt was not something demons were encouraged to feel, but Crowley had developed a taste for it over the years. It usually followed one of his fiendish plots coming back around and minorly inconveniencing him along with the local human population.[ return to text ]

[2] It also accounted for some of the distrust of his colleagues. It wasn’t proper, they whispered, a demon being that close to godliness. [ return to text ]

[3] There had been a close call in 1884, owing to the angel’s confusion over what activities a “discreet gentleman’s club” usually included. Aziraphale, quite distraught, spent considerable time telling the poor chap that he was immensely flattered and he’d surely find just the right fellow eventually. The gentleman, who had been looking for a quick shag and not a three-hour lecture on the nature of love, had quietly spread the word that Aziraphale really was just there for dance lessons and conversations about poetry, stopping all further advances. [ return to text ]

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank La_Temperanza here on Ao3 for a very helpful guide to creating linked footnotes.


End file.
